Take the Good with the Bad

A 10-minute walk up the hill from my childhood home is a windswept open space marked by a towering oak tree. The tree is one of the few bits of green that emerges above ground height and whenever I needed an escape as a child, I would scramble up the hill to the tree and lose myself under its sprawling branches.

In time, my escapes became more than a quiet afternoon under the tree-they grew into weeklong, monthlong ventures into wilderness, searching for solace unsustainable in a busier world. Getting away into nature, I thought, also meant getting away from the harsh realities of life.

That's why, with my college graduation and my official entry into the "real world" a few short weeks away, it seemed mandatory to flee the chaos once again. My friend Becky joined in and together we left Chicago looking forward to three quiet days of camping and hiking at a park in Wisconsin.

After five hours of driving through cow country, we pull up to our destination and see emerald green trees, an endless stretch of rolling hills and feel a warm breeze blowing-the perfect escape. We run into the park headquarters to pick up our camping permit and are heading out the door when we're stopped by another visitor, a small man in his early 30s with a scraggly beard, nervous eyes and the unmistakable smell of alcohol about him. He sees the permit in my hand, and asks where we're headed and if he can camp next to us. We mumble vague replies, not wanting to give him any information as two women camping alone, and slink out the door.

We hop back into the car, agree to shake off the strange encounter and head farther into the park until we reach the trailhead to our campground. A short two-mile hike delivers us to a beautiful clearing and six secluded sites, all of which, we are excited to see, are empty. After all, snoring from the tent next door really ruins the peace and quiet.

Unfortunately, snoring would soon become the least of our worries. After a relaxing evening of cards and wine, Becky and I head to bed early, and as we settle in to our sleeping bags and turn off our headlamps, we hear the sound of slow footsteps crashing through the forest. I lie still in my bag, thinking that we're a good half-hour from the car and another 30 minutes from any other person. Then I hear the same slow voice, which had alarmed us at the visitor center, speak again.

"Hello? Girls? How are you? You want to hang out?"

We don't say a word.

"I brought an ax to cut down wood for a fire."

The only word I hear is ax.

"You in there?" he asks, shaking our tent and shining his flashlight in.

At that point, I realize he is not going away and we have to say something. "Sir, we were asleep," I yell. "Go back to your campsite and leave us alone."

Becky and I stare at the beam of his flashlight while he stands over our tent (with an ax, don't forget) for the next few minutes. There is no one to call for, no snoring neighbors to wake. We had wanted to get away from everything, but we didn't plan for this. Then, just as clumsily as he stumbled over to us, he turns to go.

"Girls, I'll just be over here," he says, stomping away. "You really should come hang out."

When he wanders out of earshot, we try to make sense of why he is here. He probably overheard where we were camping and just wanted someone to talk to, I rationalize. We speak softly for a few more minutes to calm down and then try once again to shut our eyes. But as the silence grows, so do our fears and in no time, we pack up and are sneaking quietly out of camp. The two miles that had seemed so short now feel like an eternity, but eventually we are back in the car and escaping from our escape.

It's been almost two years since this trip and I still think about it often. It's with me when I head out alone on early-morning rides and the trails are deserted. It's with me on runs through quiet streets. It's with me when I return to my oak tree. It's with me because enjoying the outdoors isn't just an escape; it's a very real lifestyle where you take the good with the bad and where savoring rewards means understanding risk.